Sherlock: A Christmas Carol
by ameliajokermoriarty
Summary: Based off of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Sherlock is visited by three ghosts who show him the error of his ways, and what is to become of him if he does not change and what will happen to the people around him. Merry Christmas everyone!


Sherlock: A Christmas Carol

Sherlock walked through the streets of London, the cold biting bitterly at his skin. A scowl was etched upon his face as he brought his scarf to wrap around his neck tightly. He entered his flat quickly, running up the stairs and taking off his coat. He scowled as he looked over at John, who was tapping his thumbs lazily against desk. The candle light illuminated the room and the ink from John's quill dripped down onto the sheet of paper below.  
"I left an hour ago, John Watson, and it appears as though you still have nothing done." Sherlock sighed, hanging up his coat, scarf, and top hat.  
"I apologize, Mr. Holmes!" John exclaimed, writing quickly.  
"I hired you to document my cases and to aid me in them, and frankly John, you are slacking off quite a bit." Sherlock said, voice bitter.  
"I apologize, Mr. Holmes. My mind is wandering. I'm almost done. But I have a favour to ask, Sir." John said, hands twirling around each other.  
"Your tone and the way you are fidgeting your hands suggests that I will find it rather unpleasant. But continue." Sherlock said, sitting down at his own desk and beginning to write his own note.  
"I was wondering...if perhaps tomorrow I could have the day off..."John said, nervously.  
"And why would I allow you to do that?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his paper.  
"Well, it is Christmas, Sir."  
Sherlock sighed and allowed his quill to rest against the desk. As he was about to respond to John, the door to his flat opened widely. Standing in the doorway was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Respectable man, though slightly idiotic when it came to choosing his work companions.  
"Hello Sherlock! John! A lovely evening, is it not?" Lestrade said, a large smile on his face.  
"It certainly is." John said, getting up and walking over to him, shaking his hand.  
"I hardly agree. It is bitterly cold and work is hardly being done." Sherlock said.  
John nodded his head and walked back over to his desk and began to write once more. Lestrade smiled softly and walked over to stand in front of Sherlock's desk.  
"It is Christmas Eve, Sherlock. It is a time for joy and merriment. Not for work. Which is why I am inviting John and yourself to a Christmas party being held by my wife and I." Lestrade smiled.  
"You mean the wife in which you are having marital problems with?" Sherlock said snidely.  
"We are working through it, Sherlock. I shall not let you ruin my good mood!" Lestrade exclaimed.  
"I apologize, Lestrade. If I am allowed to spend the day at home tomorrow, I shall be spending it with my wife and family." John smiled excitedly.  
"Well understood, John. Are you suggesting that Sherlock will not let you take off Christmas? That is simply inhuman!" Lestrade laughed. "Sadly, I must depart from you now. I wish you the best of luck and a Merry Christmas." Lestrade said, bowing to them from the doorway.  
"You can leave and you may take your infernal Merry Christmas with you!" Sherlock shouted.  
"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade called, laughing as he walked down the stairs.  
Sherlock sighed and ran his hands down his face, walking over to his safe and opening it, beckoning John over. He pulled out the man's pay, placing it in his hands.  
"You may have Christmas day to spend with your family, but I expect you to be in extra early the day after!" Sherlock ordered.  
"Thank you, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, taking the money and moving to grab his coat and hat, slipping them on and running out the door. However, John turned back quickly, smiling at Sherlock. "And a Merry Christmas, Sir."  
"Humbug!" Sherlock yelled quickly after him.  
John left his place of work quickly and moved onto the streets. He went from shop to shop, picking up several items that his family would need for their Christmas feast. As he walked through the streets, snow collecting on top of his shoes as he continued to stride through the cobblestone road when he spotted his son and daughter. He walked over to them as they stared into the toy store. He scooped up Tiny Tim into his arms and wrapped an arm around his daughter's shoulders.  
"Now which ones do you like most?" John asked, smiling softly.  
"I like the dolly in the corner!" the little girl exclaimed.  
"I like them all!" Tim grinned.  
John smiled at his children and sighed. He wished that he could afford to buy his children the toys and things they wanted, however, he could not with the amount of money he was currently making working for Sherlock Holmes. He liked his fact he found it thrilling, and despite how arrogant and rude the man seemed, John could see the good in him, even if it was difficult to find.  
"Well, today must be a good day, because I have fifteen shillings in my pocket!" John grinned.  
"Fifteen shillings!"They exclaimed.  
John laughed and he walked away from the window, continuing to carry Tiny Tim, his daughter skipping along behind him. They walked through the streets, buying small gifts along with some Christmas punch as well as a goose for their Christmas dinner. They were indeed going to have a Merry Christmas.  
Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes was walking through the snow, mumbling to himself as he looked at all of the people around him. They hated him. He knew that, but it mattered not to him, for he hated them as well. He bought simply things that he would need for the night. He went home, grabbing his keys to open the door. He looked up at the door knocker and he could swear that he saw an extremely familiar face. However, in the blink of a single eye, it was gone. Sherlock simply ignored it and walked inside. He passed Mrs. Hudson and when up into his room, getting changed into his nightgown. When Sherlock walked back into his sitting room, Mrs. Hudson was setting out his dinner for him. He nodded his head at her and excused her.  
"Sherlock...do you not have anyone to visit tonight? After all, it is Christmas Eve." She said, voice soft.  
"I care little for Christmas, Mrs. Hudson,and Christmas cares little for me. Now leave me in peace." Sherlock said, voice harsh.  
Mrs. Hudson walked away, mumbling to herself before shutting the door behind her. Sherlock continued to eat and as he did, he began to feel a chill spread throughout his entire body. He shivered and he wrapped his rope around himself. Suddenly he heard a loud clanging sound. At first he had thought that it was simply his own mind deceiving him. However, soon the noise began to fill the whole room. The servant bells were ringing and he covered his ears to block out the loud ringing. However, the noise was so loud that he could still feel it traveling through his body from the vibrations and having it ring through his ears.  
"Stop! Stop!" Sherlock screamed.  
The noise stopped instantly. He looked around nervously, analyzing the room. Nothing was there. Suddenly, the sound of metal being dragged up the stairs came from outside his door. Sherlock felt his body begin to shake as he heard the sounds get closer and closer until the door swung open.  
In front of him, standing in the doorway was a man. But he was not truly a man. He was a ghost. He was white all over, with only slightly tints of grey to show the density of certain parts of his face. Sherlock couldn't believe his eyes as he saw the man. It was impossible.  
"Mycroft Holmes." Sherlock gasped.  
The ghost of his brother walked towards him, the chains dragging behind him against the floor. Sherlock stayed in his chair, shaking as he looked upon the ghost.  
"What do you want with me?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving of it all.  
"Much." the echoing voice of the ghost filled the room.  
"Who are you?"  
"Ask me who I was."  
"Who were you then?" Sherlock yelled.  
"In life, I was your brother, Mycroft Holmes."  
Sherlock sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, making him look even more disheveled than he previously had. His eyes were wide as he turned back to look at the ghost.  
"Can you sit down?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the chair opposite him.  
"I can." the ghost responded.  
"Do it, then." Sherlock ordered.  
The ghost of his brother moved across the floor towards the chair. The chains dragged behind him, and the sound seemed to be almost deafening in his ears. The ghost sat down, lifting the chains around him so that he could sit more comfortably. Sherlock stared at the ghost, eyeing it skeptically as it made itself comfortable.  
"You don't believe in me." the ghost said, voice calm.  
"Of course I don't! My brother has been dead these good seven years! This is all but an illusion that has manifested in front of me. Anything could have caused it! You could bean undigested piece of beef. A wedge of cheese! A fragment of underdone potato!" Sherlock shouted.  
Suddenly the ghost of Mycroft began to wail, clanging his chains together as he did so. Sherlock began to tremble and he covered his ears, trying to block out the rather alarming and loud noise.  
"Do you believe in me now?" the ghost asked.  
"I do! I do!" Sherlock said, trembling.  
The ghost stood and walked over to the window, looking out onto the street. Sherlock stood and walked over to him, but the ghost held up a hand to stop him.  
"I am here, Sherlock, to tell you about the fate that you will meet if you do not change your ways., the afterlife will be a cruel place for you. Look at the chains that surround my body. Yours will be longer, heavier if you do not change your ways. Come look out the window, Sherlock." the ghost said, moving his harm slowly to point out the window.  
Sherlock took the remaining steps to the window, eyeing the ghost of his brother as he did so. The whole situation was odd and Sherlock wondered if somehow he had been poisoned and illusions were part of the effects before he would drop to the floor dead. As he looked out the window, he saw a woman and her baby, sitting in the snow, their bodies shivering. Around them were other spirits and it looked as though they were trying to aid the woman and her babe, but it was in vain.  
"They are trying to make up for the deeds they committed in life. However, it is too late for them. But it is not too late for you, Sherlock. Change your ways now and you fate will change. If not, you will suffer in the afterlife. Heed my warning."  
"I appreciate the warning, Mycroft. Despite how we treated each other earlier, during your life, I am very thankful. You were my good, though sometimes rather bothersome, brother." Sherlock stated.  
"Tonight you will be visited by three ghosts."  
"What are you talking about, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide.  
"Listen for when the bell tolls." Mycroft said, before disappearing.  
Sherlock stared at the place where Mycroft had stood and his eyes were open wide in fear. He left the room quickly, going into his bedchambers, hopping onto his bed and drawing the curtains shut. He crawled under the covers of his bed, burying his face in the pillows and he pulled the covers tight around him, eventually falling into a fear induced sleep.  
He was awoken from his slumber by the toll of a bell. Sherlock sat up in his bed, turning to look at the clock that was now chiming in the corner of his room. He remembered the previous event of the night and he wondered if he was truly going mad to have believed that the ghost of his brother had actually come to warn him about the error of his ways. He laughed at himself, when he heard a small coughing sound from the other side of the room. Sherlock whipped his head around, dark curls bouncing on his head. Standing in the middle of his room was another ghost with yet another familiar face.  
"What on Earth is happening here, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked, rather angrily.  
"I am not Molly Hooper, Sherlock. I am merely taking on the form of Molly Hooper so that you feel more connected in this situation. I will also be taking on her personality." the ghost said, voice quiet.  
"Then who are you?" Sherlock asked, voice both frantic and angry.  
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past." she stated.  
"Why take on the form of Molly Hooper?"  
"Despite that you try to ignore her advances, she is helpful to you Sherlock and you trust her."  
Sherlock didn't say anything, knowing that the ghost was indeed right, however he refused to acknowledge it. Sherlock didn't need people. He hated people and they hated him. Sherlock was perfectly comfortable with this arrangement. He did not need people.  
"Take my hand." the ghost said.  
Sherlock slipped out of the bed and walked over to the ghost, whose hand was outstretched towards him. He took the hand in his own slowly. The world around them changed and suddenly Sherlock found himself in front of his old school. Sherlock looked upon the place, a look of distaste covering his face.  
"Why have you taken me here? There is nothing here that could possibly convince me to change my ways."  
"You have many bad memories here, don't you, Sherlock?" the ghost asked.  
"Of course. This school was a horrific place where I was taunted and ridiculed for have a superior intelligence to the other students and even some of the instructors. It is also the reason I was forced to live here. Father always liked Mycroft better. My Mother died in child birth, which is why my Father sent me away. Mycroft used to mock me about Mother. it was quite cruel, but I chose to ignore it."  
Sherlock watched as a younger image of himself moved into the room, a book tucked under his arm. He moved to sit in a large armchair, beginning to read. All of the other children had gone out for Christmas celebrations, but not Sherlock. He had refused. However the image soon changed. It was still inside of Sherlock's school, however he was older. He was staring out the very large window and he watched as he brother, Mycroft stepped into the room.  
"Hello, Sherlock." Mycroft said, smiling.  
"Mycroft."  
"Merry Christmas."  
"I do not see what is so merry about it." Sherlock said, angrily.  
Mycroft sighed and took a step closer to Sherlock, resting his hand on the boy's shoulder.  
"Father has requested you home for the holidays so that we can all be together. As a family."  
"Father wishes for family time? Odd. I thought that he would never consider me to be part of the family." Sherlock said, voice filled with bitterness.  
"Come now, Sherlock. Would Mummy appreciate it if you spoke in such a way about your Father?" Mycroft asked, snidely.  
"You and I both know that I am not aware of what Mother would appreciate." Sherlock said, voice laced with venom.  
Mycroft laughed, a slightly sound of sadness tainting it, but only Sherlock and Mycroft himself would be able to point out the hint of sadness.  
"Did Father send you in an attempt to persuade me to come back? He sent me here in the first place. I was a child and yet he blamed the world's problems on me. He knows nothing of my nature, Mycroft. You barely know. The last Father was aware, I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up." Sherlock chuckled.  
"It is time to go home now, Sherlock. The coach is waiting.: Mycroft said, stepping out of the room.  
Sherlock stared hatefully after his brother and regretfully followed. "I have no home."  
The ghost turn to look at Sherlock, but he simply rolled his eyes and looked down at the now empty room.  
"Change this. I no longer wish to be here." Sherlock said.  
The ghost who had taken the image of Molly sighed and the room around them changed. It was now a shadow of the place where Sherlock had once worked. It was the night of their annual Christmas party. Mycroft worked alongside him and they were preparing for the night of festivities. Both of them, though not avid socialites, understood the need for social contact and social placement.  
The party began and Sherlock remembered it fondly, smiling softly as he watched the spectacle unravel around him. There was dancing and merriment, and Sherlock watched this shadow of himself standing simply in the corner of the room. Many women came up to him, to ask him to dance, but he respectfully declined. This was odd for a man at his age. By this point he was twenty-one years old and he should have been showing a great interest in attaining a wife, however he showed none at all. His mind had been completely focused on his work. Which was why he showed a great interest in James Moriarty. The man was his work. His purpose. Which was why when the man approached him to speak, he made no move to turn away.  
"What was your interest in this man, Sherlock?" the ghost asked.  
"He was my work. While I solved crimes, he created them." Sherlock responded.  
"You are lying to yourself, Sherlock. He was more than that." the ghost stated.  
"I am not lying to myself. I know what we were. However, it was socially incorrect and it would have been illogical to continue it. Sentiment is a weakness. It got in the way of my work.  
Once more the ghost sighed and the image changed to the shadow of another Christmas. Sherlock sat at his desk, writhing a report for Lestrade to give to the other detectives. He had solved another case and the criminal would be apprehended. As he worked, James stepped into the room. Sherlock looked up quickly, acknowledging his existence before returning to work. James pouted and made his way over to Sherlock's desk, sitting on the edge of it.  
"Have you grown bored of me, Sherlock?" James asked, looking down at the papers on Sherlock's desk.  
"I am not bored of you, James." Sherlock said, moving the papers out of Jim's point of view.  
"I would beg to differ, my love. It seems to me that you have indeed grown very bored of me." James spoke.  
"I just informed you that I am not."  
"But you are! So caught up in your mindless cases that you have forgotten all about out game!" James exclaimed.  
"I have no forgotten our game, James." Sherlock said.  
"You have, Sherlock, and I have grown bored with you." James said, sighed before walking out of the room.  
"Go after him!" Sherlock shouted at the shadow of his former self. "Life is dull after him..."  
"He can't hear you, Sherlock. You can not change the past." the ghost whispered in the voice that was almost as passive as Molly's.  
The room changed once more and now Sherlock saw a sight that he had wished to never see again. He was standing in front of the death bed of James Moriarty. Sherlock felt tears fill his eyes, but he refused to allow them to spill over. He watched the shadow of himself sit by the bed as the sheet was dragged over the dead man's face. Sherlock did not stay after that. He had left the room, and Sherlock knew that the shadow of himself had gone to compose on his violin. It was the way he used to deal with his unbearable emotions.  
"He killed himself. Now that he had lost his interest in you, he could not find anything to keep his mind at bay. So he killed himself." the ghost stated.  
"Take me away from this place, spirit. I do not wish to see anymore." Sherlock whispered.  
The ghost simply smiled that smile so similar to Molly's, but did nothing.  
"I command you spirit! Take me away from this accursed place!" Sherlock shouted, not wanting to look upon the body anymore. This was all too much for his mind to bare.  
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was back in his bed. The sheets were wrapped around his body tightly, restricting his movements. He sat up in his bed and looked over at the clock as the bell tolled two. As the bell rang, a thunderous laughter began to fill the room. The room shook and the floors creaked and groaned.  
"Sherlock Holmes! Come here!" A booming voice echoed through the flat.  
"I would prefer not to." Sherlock said, eyeing the golden light that was shining through the crack under the door.  
"Now!"  
Sherlock scrambled out of his bed and he walked hesitantly over to the door. He turned the door handle and as he opened the door, light shone bright and blinded him momentarily. The roaring laughter filled his ears. He slowly regained his ability to see once again and standing in the middle of his sitting room was an extremely tall man. By extremely tall, Sherlock meant that the man was a giant. He sat atop Sherlock's fire place and he drank from a large golden chalice. A wreath circled his head and he wore a long and flowing green robe. He laughed as he drank, and in Sherlock's eyes, this spirit took on the form of John Watson.  
"You are the second spirit who's coming was foretold to me." Sherlock stated.  
"I am." the ghost laughed, drinking from his goblet.  
"The last ghost I met was the ghost of Christmas Paster. Now I am assuming that you are-"  
"The Ghost of Christmas Present." the voice boomed.  
"Then show me the present! I wish for this tedious nightmare to end so that I may continue my life!" Sherlock exclaimed.  
"Do you not understand, Sherlock Holmes, the pleasure's one's life could bring? Are you really so foolish?" the ghost asked.  
"I have little time for the pleasures of life! There are more important things to be done! Work that must be finished!" Sherlock shouted.  
"You truly are a fool, Sherlock Holmes. For a man who prides himself for his intellect, you truly are a fool. Come now. There are things that you must bare witness to."the ghost said, standing up and having to crouch so that he didn't break through the ceiling.  
The room changed once more around them and Sherlock found himself standing in the snowy streets of London. The snow was falling in large chunks and it hit Sherlock's skin with an icy cold intensity. It caused Sherlock's body to shiver and he wrapped his arms tightly around himself in an attempt to stay warm. The ghost led him through the streets, remaining quiet as they continued to walk. Sherlock watched the quality of the house drop significantly and he knew that the ghost was taking him to the poor areas of London. The ghost eventually stopped in front of an old wooden house.  
"Look through the window, Sherlock." the ghost ordered.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he walked over to the window. He wiped the frost off of the glass and peered inside. He was watching the Watson's Christmas feast. Sherlock watched as John and his wife Mary set out their Christmas meal as the children continued to decorate their home with festive decorations. Sherlock watched John's son, Tim, grab onto his cane as he hobbled over to where his younger sister was hanging up decorations along the hearth. Sherlock turned to look back at the ghost.  
"What is wrong with Tiny Tim?" Sherlock asked, curiously.  
"He is sick, Sherlock. His family cannot afford the doctors or medical attention required in order to heal the boy."  
Sherlock nodded his head, before turning back to look through the window. All of John's children were there, even the eldest who had obviously been a surprise guest. Sherlock pressed his ear over the glass as John began to make a toast.  
"I would like to thank my family for being here tonight, so that we may celebrate this holiday together. I would also like to thank Mr. Holmes! Without him, we would not have this wonderful feast!"  
Mary looked angered by this statement and she slammed her cup down on the table.  
"Mr. Holmes! We have no reason to thank him! You did this all on your own, John! There is no reason to thank Sherlock Holmes!" Mary said, voice bitter.  
Sherlock was slightly taken aback by Mary's harsh words and he eyed the entire family skeptically. John did not attempt to defend him, and instead remained silent, picking up Tiny Tim and gathering him in his arms.  
Sherlock took a few steps back from the window and he turned to face the ghost once more. The ghost allowed a hand to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Why show me this?" Sherlock asked.  
"T'was something you needed to see, Sherlock Holmes."  
Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut and when he opened them, he found himself in the midst of yet another party. Sherlock looked around and he saw Lestrade and his wife sitting amongst the mass group of people. They seemed to be playing a game. Chanting a song about some Minister's Cat and they were meant to describe him with a word that began with the letter 'M'. Sherlock found the whole game tedious, however these people seemed to be having a rather enjoyable time. Eventually that game came to an end and a new game began.  
"Through a series of questions, you will have to guess what I am thinking." Sally Donovan smiled.  
"Is it a building?" One woman asked.  
"No!"  
"Is it living?" a man shouted.  
"Yes!"  
"Is it good natured?" a young girl giggled.  
"Goodness no!"  
"Is it ill tempered?" another woman shouted.  
"Indeed it is!"  
"Is it an ass?" a woman asked.  
"In a way."  
"Oh what is it? We're all dying to find out." Lestrade laughed.  
"It is that little Detective of yours! Sherlock Holmes!" Sally laughed loudly.  
Sherlock watched as everyone in the party began to laugh and he turned back to look at the ghost. The party seemed to melt away and he stood in the cobblestone streets of London once more. Sherlock studied the ghosts face and he watched as the man began to age. Wrinkles formed on his face and Sherlock took a step back. He saw the man's face become sunken and gaunt as he began to crumble to the floor.  
"Learn the error of your ways, Sherlock Holmes." the ghost said, before his body turned to ash and blew away in the wind.  
Sherlock stood there, watching the ash as it disappeared into the night and he heard the toll of a church bell. Sherlock turned around slowly and he saw a figure, cloaked in black. Sherlock took careful and hesitant steps towards the figure.  
"You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. The one who will show me what will happen if I do not change my ways." Sherlock stated, analyzing the cloaked figure  
The figure made no indication that Sherlock was correct in his statement. Instead, it extended his arm to point down an alley. Sherlock walked slowly down the street. The figure didn't seem to move, so Sherlock walked on his own. He found himself once again at the Watson house.  
Sherlock looked through the window once more and immediately, he noticed the difference between the Christmas he had seen previously and the Christmas that he was viewing now. The house was no longer filled with the life or happiness that it had the previous year. Instead, not it seemed that all the energy had been drained out of them. The children no longer smiled and John didn't have that care free smile that Sherlock was used to. It was replaced by a look that made the man look hollow and barren.  
"I went to visit him today, Mary. We talked...for awhile. I promised that I would visit him and I have. I try to go everyday. I don't want him to get lonely, Mary."  
Sherlock watched as Mary gathered John into her arms and he began to cry as she fought back her own tears. Sherlock was confused as to who they were referring to. By the hearth rested Tiny Tim's crutch. Sherlock pulled away from the window and once more the spirit stood beside him.  
"Where is Tiny Tim? Spirit, tell me where he is." Sherlock demanded.  
The ghost simply extended his arm again, pointing towards a separate direction. Sherlock walked in the direction indicated and it led Sherlock to a graveyard. He took slow and hesitant steps until he stopped at a small and tiny grave. It read:  
Here Lies Timothy Watson  
Beloved Brother and Child  
Sherlock gasped and backed away from the horror that lay before his eyes. He turned to face the spirit, dropping to his knees in the snow as he looked up at the hooded figure.  
"I have seen the error of my ways. Please, dear spirit, do not allow this fate to befall Tiny Tim. I beg of you."  
"Begging had always been a strong suit of yours, Sherlock. At least when it came to me." a voice said, a voice that sounded so familiar and yet Sherlock had not heard it in years.  
"No. It is impossible. You can't be..." Sherlock said, in disbelief.  
The spirit chuckled and pulled back it's hood, revealing the dark haired demon that Sherlock had met, loved, and lost when he was a young man.  
"James. James Moriarty. Did you miss me, Sherlock?" James asked, stepping forward and running a hand through Sherlock's curls.  
"You're dead." Sherlock shouted, standing up and stepping away from James.  
"I'm not the only one, Sherlock." James said, pointing to something behind Sherlock.  
Sherlock slowly turned around, knowing exactly what he would see, but hoping and wishing that for once in his life, he would be wrong. He turned around fully and he eyed the tombstone that lay before him. It read:  
Here Lies Sherlock Holmes  
There was no statement of caring underneath his name, but what had he expected? He had pushed everyone away, and now look at what had become of him. Sherlock turned around to face Jim once more. The spirit was grinning widely at him.  
"You played the game of fate, Sherlock, and you lost. Now it's time to face the consequences." James said.  
He took the final remaining steps towards Sherlock and he ran a hand over Sherlock's cheek, leaning in and kissing him lightly, so lightly that it merely felt like a brush of wind that grazed the skin of his lips.  
"I owe you a fall, Sherlock." James whispered against his lips.  
Sherlock felt James' hands against his chest and suddenly he was pushed backwards. He expected to stumble, however, he fell back into the grave. His grave. He closed his eyes as he fell down into darkness, the emptiness of the grave consuming his body. As he opened his eyes he could see the small opening of the grave and he wished that he could change all that he had done. He wished that he had a second chance.  
Sherlock shot out of his bed, falling to the floor in a mess of sheets and limbs. He looked up, with a look of pure confusion on his face. He heard the chirping of birds. It was morning. Morning! He was alive! He was given a second chance! Sherlock stood up quickly and ran to look in the mirror. He laughed loudly as he realized that he was in fact alive. He ran over to the window, opening it all the way and sticking his upper body completely out of the window. The streets were completely covered in new fallen snow and he watched as a young child ran through the street with hid sled.  
"Boy!" Sherlock shouted.  
The child stopped and looked up at him. "Sir?"  
"What day is it?"  
"What day? Why it's Christmas Day!"  
"Good. I haven't missed it." Sherlock mumbled to himself. "I need you to do something for me. Go to the butcher's. Ask him to bring me his prized turkey, the one about your size. There is half a crown in it for you! If you get it here within half an hour it will be a full crown! Now go!" Sherlock shouted.  
The boy ran off instantly to do as he was told and Sherlock smiled, running out of his room and down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was peering at him oddly and he just grinned, grabbing onto her hands and beginning to dance with her. She seemed confused by Sherlock's complete change in behavior. When Sherlock finally stopped dancing with her, he kissed her on the cheek, thanking her, before running out of the flat.  
He met with the young boy, who had brought the butch with him who seemed extremely confused. Sherlock paid the man much more than the turkey was worth.  
"Consider it a thank you and a Christmas present." Sherlock said, handing the boy the crown that he had promised him.  
"God bless you, Mr. Holmes." the butcher said, in complete disbelief.  
Sherlock smiled and bowed to the man, before continuing to walk down the streets. He cared little for the fact that he was still in his had more important things to do. He made his way to the toy store and bought every toy that he possibly could. Once more, Sherlock had left another shop owner in disbelief. He placed the toys on the young boys sled, before turning to the toy store owner.  
"I need you to deliver these toys, as well as the turkey to the Watson residence. Do not inform them that it was I who sent them." Sherlock said, allowing his hand to rest on his shoulder.  
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes." the man exclaimed, rushing off to deliver the toys.  
Sherlock was left alone in the street as the children and other people followed the sled filled with toys. He walked down the streets of London, skipping as he did so, when he ran into Lestrade and his wife. He paused and looked at Lestrade, who gave him an odd smile in return.  
"I have not thanked you, Lestrade, for all that you have done for me. For allowing me to continuing my consulting work. I would be honoured to attend your Christmas party." Sherlock said.  
"No, Sherlock. It would be an honour to have you there." Lestrade smiled.  
Christmas day passed, and Sherlock found that he rather enjoyed the festivities at Lestrade's home. Sherlock was inside of his office. John was late. As the man ran inside, Sherlock had to suppress an oncoming fit of laughter.  
"John!" Sherlock shouted.  
The man winced and walked into the room. "Yes, Sherlock?"  
"You are late. I have expressed far too many times my distaste in tardiness. I'm afraid I have no other option, but to raise your salary." Sherlock said, as he began to laugh.  
John looked at him with a look that informed Sherlock that the man was completely flabbergasted. Sherlock simply continued to laugh and he placed his hands on John's shoulders.  
"Take the day off, John. Spend it with your family. You'll be paid for your time off."  
"Sherlock..." John said.  
"Never question a good thing, John Watson. Now go."  
Sherlock Holmes lived out his days, in a way that nobody would have ever expected. He aided other, both in cases and in everyday life. He made sure that Tiny Tim received the medical attention that he required in order to heal and Sherlock became almost like a father to him. Sherlock learned to act the way that he knew would correct him of his old ways. As he walked through the streets of London, with Tiny Tim sitting upon his shoulder, the boy exclaimed.  
"God Bless Us! Everyone!"  
THE END


End file.
